


Sublimation

by godofwine



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godofwine/pseuds/godofwine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For oxonensis' prompt, "Brad/Nate, Nate as Brad's lawyer, Brad's in prison for some serious crime, but he's innocent".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sublimation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the brilliant oxonensis for the beta!

*

Nate’s had the same Sunday morning schedule for years now: 7 am alarm, get the paper, lazy five mile jog, cereal in front of the morning news.

In September, Nate opens the front the door and stops. “Arrest made in fatal shooting of Iraq vet,” the Chronicle tells him.

It’s not the headline that gets to him. Underneath, in smudged colored newsprint, is a picture of Brad. He’s looking back, t-shirt straining at the shoulders against handcuffed arms. His stare is Iceman calm.

Nate takes the paper inside and closes the door. He breathes, once, twice, before he starts to read.

*

 _Police have arrested Staff Sergeant Brad Colbert for the shooting of Marine Corps officer Captain James Anderson._

 _A decorated Iraq War vet, Anderson was returning home from celebrating the conclusion of an eight month tour in Iraq when he was shot twice in the torso with another bullet grazing his ear._

 _Witnesses report that Colbert had argued with Anderson earlier at a local bar where Anderson was drinking with some friends._

 _Colbert had previously served in Anderson’s platoon in Iraq where he was allegedly very vociferous of his disapproval of Anderson’s command, especially in regards to the death of a young corporal on Colbert’s team._

 _Police arrived to find Colbert kneeling over Anderson’s body. He was armed with a 9 mm handgun that was most likely the murder weapon._

 _Paramedics on scene noted that Anderson was shot half an hour prior to the police’s arrival. He died soon after._

 _Captain Anderson is survived by his wife and two sons._

*

Nate hasn’t seen Brad in years, not since before Nate went off to law school and Brad headed off to England.

They used to talk on the phone before it got harder to hear Brad’s voice than not to hear it.

These days, Nate doesn’t think about it much. Brad’s not so much a regret as extra emotional baggage.

Nate doesn’t want to be broken; he likes that he can simplify some fractures into quaint, Psych 101 bullshit.

*

The papers are saying Brad could plea out a man one sentence if he’s very lucky. Most likely, he’s looking at a second degree murder charge.

He could get life.

He could get _life_.

*

Mike Wynn’s the only one from the old platoon who picks up when Nate calls.

It’s been a while. On the phone, Mike sounds tired, traces of gravel in his voice like the longest nights in Iraq.

“I don’t know why,” Mike says when Nate asks. “Probably something to do with that boy who died in Iraq. Brensen? I think that was his name.”

“So you think he’s guilty then?”

“They’ve got a pretty compelling case.” Mike’s voice has grown soft. Nate can barely hear it over the sound of children laughing in the background. After a pause, Mike adds, “I’ll tell you this about Anderson, he was a sonuvabitch. Not to speak ill of the dead, but if a tenth of the rumors are true, the world’s better off without him.”

It shouldn’t make Nate feel better, but it does. Everyone keeps saying how it’s so tragic because Anderson was this war hero, and somewhere, out there, Brad Colbert must have gotten fucked up real good.

Nate doesn’t know any more than anyone else, but he thinks with Brad, at least, he deserves all the benefit Nate can give him.

“You want to go see him?” Mike asks, and Nate has to think before he says, “Yeah.”

*

It takes Nate a full ten hours heading down I-5 to reach San Diego. There’s a stretch of this highway, just south of Oceanside, that he knows like the back of his hand. In the dark though, it looks like any American interstate. He keeps the radio on loud and hums along when he can and tries not to think of Brad at all.

He gets to his hotel just shy of midnight. He spends a small fortune raiding the vending machine for all its potato based snacks. All day, Nate’s had two meals of McDonald’s drive-through in his car, and he’s starving.

He falls asleep with the TV on. When he wakes, the sun’s high overhead.

*

There’s a woman on her way out when Nate finally gets to the visiting room. She gets up in a hurry and doesn’t look Nate in the eyes. She’s crying. Brad’s stare follows her across the room.

Nate wonders idly if they’re dating. She looks young, but Nate’s intelligence on what Brad’s type might be is too dated, too biased to be helpful. He takes her seat and doesn’t ask.

Despite the prison orange, Brad looks almost exactly the same as Nate remembers. Brad’s only been here three weeks, but Nate was already imagining his hair getting long and shaggy, maybe a raggedy beard. Instead, Brad is military precise.

“I’m surprised you came,” Brad says.

“Brad,” Nate starts and doesn’t know how to finish. He used to think all the answers were written in Brad’s eyes, but now he can’t look past the edges of Brad’s neck. Nate doesn’t know why it matters; Brad’s neck is as intimately Brad, as achingly familiar as the rest of Brad.

“How are things in here?” Nate says finally to a clean-shaven chin.

“Same crazy whiskey tango fucks everywhere.” Brad’s voice is even, like Nate hasn’t spent the last minute and a half fidgeting in his seat.

This should be easier. In Iraq, Nate once faced down enemy gunfire, command, and dead little girls on the side of highways. He’s still here.

He looks up, relearns the symmetry of Brad’s face, says, “What can I do?”

It’s not hard at all.

*

Nate stays an hour and does most of the talking. He doesn’t bothering asking “Did you?” or “Why?” Nate’s either going to get the truth or a lie; both would hurt too much.

*

Nate gets back to his hotel room and doesn’t cry or throw up or get completely trashed or anything equally as dramatic.

He sits cross-legged on the cheap polyester comforter, laptop curser blinking, and thinks very carefully about everything he knows about criminal law and doesn’t write _life life life_ over and over again like a crazy person.

*

Nate spent the summer of his second year at Harvard Law interning at the DA’s office. He spent hours memorizing blood spatter analyses, pouring over crime scene photos, talking to new widows.

It didn’t make him want to vomit or blow his brains out or cry at night, but he switched to Environmental Law the next year.

*

Brad’s lawyer is some up-and-comer at the Public Defender’s office named Jake Kanders who seems more interested in making friends with the prosecutors than the details of the case. Nate’s had a bad feeling about the guy since the local news first showed a clip of him shaking the Mayor’s hand in front of the county courthouse.

Kanders is still talking to the ADA about golf courses when the judge comes in.

Judge Roberts is the kind of old that’s kindly and official looking. He wears the robes well. “You’re requesting to take over representation of Mr. Colbert’s case?” he says without preamble. His voice is smoke-stained warm.

“Yes sir,” Nate answers. Next to him, Kanders has stopped flirting with the enemy. His hands are clasped loosely on the table in front of him. Between his fingers, Nate makes out the burnished gold of a wedding ring.

“Tell me about your qualifications,” Roberts says.

It doesn’t take long to make it official. No one has any objections. It’s a solid case enough case, better than most, and Nate’s presence is just a technicality. On the phone, Brad told him, “Kanders says it’s pretty much a done deal,” and, “You don’t have to.”

Nate follows Kanders back to the Public Defender’s building for Brad’s case files. Kanders’ office is claustrophobically tight, walls lined with brimming bookshelves and filing cabinets. It’s messy in the way a professor’s office is.

“Listen kid,” Kanders says, rummaging through a stack of folders on his desk, “think what you want about me, but I’m telling you, this guy? He’s guilty. No one’s that stoic about their own defense unless they’re hiding something.”

Kanders finally finds what he’s looking for. The file’s not as thick as Nate was expecting. Paperclipped to the front, Brad’s mug shot looks back, handsome and defiant.

“All yours,” Kanders says.

*

The case is not really as straightforward as it looks. There are no real witnesses. The closest residents were on vacation when it happened. The neighbors only woke up when they heard the shots.

The gun doesn’t even belong to Brad. It’s registered to a gun range about three miles away.

 _Reasonable doubt_ , Nate thinks. Standing over a body isn’t absolute. It’s not insurmountable, he hopes.

*

Nate’s place in San Francisco is an honest-to-god Victorian mansion that his boyfriend Matt inherited from a wealthy grandmother.

Nate met Matt when he was still bumming around in second-rate motels, feeling like he was sneaking back into California after an exodus to the East Coast. Matt worked in the accounting department of the NGO that Nate was starting at. The accounting department was really just one main guy and Matt, who consulted for a few weeks around tax season. It’s a small company. Nate likes it that way, but it means that everyone knows everyone else’s business.

Nate’s second week there, Matt offered him a room for cheap in his big, empty house. Nate accepted because he was tired of living on microwavable foods and nearby takeout. The four walls of his hotel room were starting to close in on him the way his Humvee never did.

It worked out well for them. Nate left out toast and scrambled eggs and coffee before his morning jog while Matt slept till the last minute possible. Matt shopped at local markets and cooked them farm fresh dinners that even Nate’s mother couldn’t beat.

They spent a lot of time hanging out and telling jokes and sharing chores. After he left the military, Nate lost most of his California friends, the welcomeness of their congeniality fading with the distance of time. Coming back, he didn’t try to get in contact again.

He doesn’t know Matt’s story and doesn’t ask.

One day, two months in, Nate came home to find Matt sobbing on the couch. There was a half empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table like an afterthought. Nate sat down and listened.

Since college, Matt had dated the same guy. Sweet, funny, handsome. They were perfect for each other. Until six months ago when he dumped Matt for a twink he was seeing on the side. Matt just got an invite to their commitment ceremony in the mail. “Like I didn’t walk in on them fucking in our bed. Our _fucking_ bed. How fucked up is that?”

It was the kind of everyday tragedy most people could relate to. Nate nodded and didn’t interrupt.

Around midnight, Matt said, “I bet you never broke anyone’s heart, Nate,” and leaned over and kissed him. Matt’s mouth was whiskey sharp and shy and wet against Nate’s.

The next morning, Matt got up early and made them ham and cheese omelettes and sourdough French toast. Over the breakfast bar, Matt’s eyes were warm and molasses brown, nothing like ice at all.

*

Most of Nate’s clothes are still in the third floor bedroom that he first moved into. His boss lives in t-shirts and jeans and thinks his employees should do the same. Half of Nate's suits are starting to smell musty. He grabs them anyway and makes a note to find a dry cleaners first thing.

“Want me to pack you the kitchen sink while you’re at it?” Matt says from the doorway.

Matt’s the kind of guy who’ll bring a toothbrush and a change of boxers to a three-day seminar. Nate’s got a suitcase and a couple of garment bags. It’s more than he brought to Iraq but still less than most people. “I want to be prepared,” he answers.

“So what does a murder case have to do with CO2 omissions, anyway?”

“I was, uh, specializing in criminal law before I switched.” Nate’s almost sure he has everything. He thinks, _cufflinks_.

“Right, right,” Matt continues. “So what is it about this guy in particular that has you going back?”

Nate can’t concentrate properly for this conversation. There’s too much to do. “I told you, he served in my platoon.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s not enough?”

“Is it?”

Nate never really told anyone about Brad. It was one of those stories that, years later, still felt too confidential to say out loud. He didn’t think Matt would guess. “What?” he says.

“Hey, I saw the pictures in the papers. The guy is pretty hot for an accused murderer.” Matt’s voice is on the cusp of joking. “Just wondering if I should be jealous.”

Nate turns.

Matt’s almost the exact same height he is. Nate walks over and doesn’t have to reach up or bend down at all to say, against Matt’s lips, “You have nothing to worry about.”

Matt closes the last bit of distance between them. “I know. I just meant I’ll miss you doofus.”

“You too,” Nate says back. On his way out the door, he adds, “I’ll call when I get there.”

*

Sometimes, when they’re out, Matt will slip a casual arm around his shoulder or guide him with a hand on the small of his back. It’s the kind of intimate touch that makes Nate stop and close his eyes and enjoy it like it’s new every time.

Nate doesn’t know for sure if he’s broken any hearts. Probably he has. He’s never done anything as drastic as cheating though; he’s better at losing emails and forgetting to call back.

*

The first thing Nate asks for is Brad’s side of the story.

“What did Kanders tell you?” Brad says.

“Just what everyone’s already saying.”

Brad’s sitting ramrod straight, hands loosely clasped on the table in front of him. His voice is carefully casual, straightforward like an official report. “There’s not much more.”

Nate thinks _life_ and asks, “So you shot him then?”

“Is that what you believe?”

“I believe that as your attorney, I need to hear you say it.”

Brad slouches a little, unwinds. His fingers trace an infinity loop on the scratched steel of the tabletop. “Not really much point to that if you’ve already made up your mind.”

They’re not close anymore, Nate knows, but it’s still Brad even when they talk like strangers. “Just, give me something to work with here,” Nate begs.

“Don’t worry about it, Nate.” Brad smiles. “I’m going to plead guilty.”

*

One of Nate’s old Dartmouth buddies, who went on to become a reputable defense attorney, once told Nate he figured about 90 percent of his clients were guilty. The other ten just hadn’t been caught yet.

Nate believes in the justice system, he does, but he could never understand those guys who are more interested in preserving a technical definition than seeing a criminal punished.

Once, Nate would have said he’d give anything to keep his men safe. He’d give his life. He’d give his _soul_.

He can’t keep Brad safe though. Brad’s not even his to protect anymore.

He closes his eyes and imagines a dark and lonely road, Anderson - who could have been a peer, staggering home after a night out, Brad following him. He thinks about Brad pulling out a gun, finger steady on the trigger. It’s a motion he’s watched and admired a thousand times.

He thinks about Anderson’s body bleeding out onto the street.

But Brad’s right; he’s made up his mind before there was a body to be had. If he could, he’d break Brad out this second and take him far away where there are no jails and no trials, no threat of forever. He wouldn’t hesitate at all.

*

Anderson’s house is a plain two-story colonial. There’s a young boy playing amongst the weeds in the front yard. With his curly blond hair and light skin, the boy doesn’t look at all like any of the pictures of Anderson that Nate’s seen. His shirt has a Marine Corps logo on the front though. Nate tries not to read into it.

There’s no “For Sale” sign out. Nate takes that as a good sign.

He keeps driving. Three blocks south is the spot where Anderson died. Nate parks and walks over and stands.

It’s just a simple sidewalk square. No answers. Even the blood has been rubbed off the concrete. If it weren’t for the few drying memorial wreaths still lying around, Nate would wonder if this is the right place. He gets back in his car and starts driving again.

When he left this morning, he told himself he needed see what they’re up against. All Brad’s got is the human-interest angle. Maybe the valor medals will shave off a few years. Maybe the dead team member will buy him a couple more. It’s all Nate has, all Brad’s giving him.

Nate thinks about the boy again, soccer ball half hidden in the overgrown lawn, and tries not to feel nauseous.

Nate’s never lived in this part of Oceanside, but it’s a popular area for Marines with families. The bar that Brad and Anderson were at is one of those dingy local hangouts that are always a lot friendlier than they look. Nate walks in to the smell of fries and beer and settles into a corner booth.

Nate’s waitress is young and friendly and tantalizingly familiar. Her nametag says “Donna”, but it doesn’t mean anything to him. Nate’s halfway through his order before he remembers. “Wait, do you know Brad Colbert?”

“What?” she says, her smile fading.

Nate gets it, he does. Brad’s not exactly the most welcome of acquaintances these days, but here, in the heart of Anderson’s domain, his name burns like ice.

Still, Nate has a job to do. “I saw you visiting him at the jail. About a week ago?”

“Um, yeah. He’s, he was in a platoon with my fiancé in Iraq.”

“Were you working here when Brad had the fight with Captain Anderson?” Her face falls. “I’m only asking because I’m his lawyer, and I’m just-“

“No, no, I left early. I told this to the police already.” She sounds close to tears. “Did Brad send you here?”

“No. Just looking for the whole story.”

“Brad-,” she starts, “Brad’s a good man.” She calms, withdraws into herself. “But I don’t know anything.”

Nate got his first angry phone call last night. He let the woman yell at him for five minutes. It was a good reminder of what Brad’s up against.

Donna went to visit Brad. It’s better than most.

Nate says, “Thanks anyway.”

*

Brad insists that none of his family can testify, doesn’t even want them in the courtroom with him for the arraignment.

“Brad, we need everyone on our side that we can get,” Nate tries to explain.

“Promise,” Brad says. “Promise.” The brushed steel of his voice is better than a chokehold; Nate finds himself struggling for air.

“You’re making my job a lot harder,” Nate says, but he calls Mrs. Colbert the next day and listens to her cry.

*

Nate only gets a couple of guys from Brad’s platoon to sign on as character witnesses. Most of them are supportive enough, but their sympathy doesn’t stretch beyond the confines of a private phone call.

One guy says, “It’s not like I didn’t think about putting a bullet in the guy myself, but…“

Nate says, “I understand,” and stops pushing.

Bravo Two’s a lot better. Ray calls and says, “This is so fucked up. No man, this is really, really fucked up.”

“I know," Nate says, and, because Ray deserves to know, “It doesn’t look good.”

There’s an inhale on the other end. “You know, if you need anything, I’m there.”

Nate doesn’t remember the last time he cried, but he starts now. He bites his lips and tries to keep it in.

Nate’s memories of Brad seem to hover between fantasy and reality, shimmering at the edge of Nate’s consciousness like a dream, but Ray has always been concretely real. Nate imagines his convoy of Humvees baking in the desert heat, the staccato of Stafford and Christensen rapping, the grittiness of shamal blazed air. He misses it like home.

“Thanks,” Nate says, and Ray says back, “No need.”

*

Nate only made it two weeks as Captain, but he did six years as a Marine.

They all knew a guy, or had a friend who knew a guy or a friend of a friend, who got out because he had to, because he told, because someone asked. It wasn’t something Nate really worried about. Before Brad, Nate was careful and discrete and unattached. He couldn’t see himself getting serious with anyone any time soon. The Corps was more important anyway.

He didn’t leave because he was in love. He left because he still has dreams about dead civilians and bullshit missions and meaningless patrols in Baghdad. But it was the first time _that_ part of the job felt like it mattered.

A week before Nate was about to fly out, Brad took him to a party at his parents’ place. Brad was a lot more social than Nate expected. He laughed and flirted with old high school girlfriends and sipped wine like a stranger.

Nate spent most of the party making small talk with Brad’s brother-in-law and wondering why Brad invited him at all.

On the drive home, Brad said, “Did you have fun?” It was a cool night along the shore. They had the windows rolled down, and Brad’s arm hung out, catching the breeze.

“They don’t know, do they?” Nate asked.

“Know what?”

Nate spared a glance from the road, but Brad was turned away from him. In the dim light of street lamps, Nate made out the corner of an ear, the ridge of a cheekbone. It didn’t tell him anything.

In the same tone, Brad said, “Some of us are still in the Corps, Nate.”

“The Way We Were” came on the radio. Nate tried to hum along, but he didn’t remember the lyrics.

At the airport, Nate asked, “Will you come and visit?”

“I’ll try,” Brad said, before he turned and walked away.

*

The last time Nate heard from Brad was a rumpled postcard from Iraq that said, _They need to invent a diaper that doesn’t stick to your balls._

Nate had spent most of the day discussing hypothetical dead mules and the economics of liability law. It took him a minute to understand the sentence. Nate stared at the postcard for a long time and tried to think of a response. He thought of Iraq and the warm cynicism of Brad’s quips. It felt like a long time ago.

He tucked the postcard in the back of his bedside table drawer. It didn’t have to be significant, he thought, even though it felt like it was.

After that, Brad called once, but Nate wasn’t there to pick up. Brad didn’t leave a voicemail.

*

“Did you think this would be how we’d see each other again?” Nate asks.

Brad laughs. “Over my murder trial?”

“I mean- unintentionally.”

“I think,” Brad says slowly, “I think neither of us were very good with our expectations.”

*

Nate’s still getting his shoes off when the phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Matt. Nate lets it get to three rings. He picks up before it can go to voicemail.

“Are you ok?” Matt says, instead of “hello”.

“Yeah, of course,” Nate says. He toes his off socks, feels the first hit of air conditioning on his bare skin.

“I haven’t heard from you for over a week.”

Nate waits for the rest the question to come, but there isn’t one. “I’ve been busy.”

“How’s the case going?”

“Alright. Just figuring out the details.”

“I know it’s...“ Matt pauses long enough for Nate to wonder if the reception has cut out. “Personal.”

“It’s fine.”

Matt’s voice gets impatient. “That’s all? ‘It’s fine’?”

“What do you want to hear?”

“I just want to know how you’re doing.”

Nate knows what Matt wants. He says, “I said fine.”

He hears Matt inhale. “This is what I mean Nate, you never talk to me. We’ve been together a year. A year. Your friend killed a guy, and now you’re representing him and you can’t even open up about it. I keep waiting for you to trust me, and that’s never going to happen, is it?”

It’s surreal. Nate thinks he’s heard this speech on a soap opera. He fingers the corner of his briefcase and tries to stay calm. He doesn’t quite make it. “You seriously need to get over yourself. Not everything is about your fucking emotional dependency issues.”

Matt’s gasp is audible. He’s being cruel, Nate knows.

“You know what?” Matt says. “You’re going through a tough time right now, so I’m going to do you a favor and forget you said that.”

Nate thinks about the shadows under Brad’s eyes, the way they always look bruised. He tries to remember the details of Matt’s face, corner laugh lines or a childhood scar, but his mind is blank.

“Fine,” he says.

Matt takes a second to answer. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“Matt, I-“ Nate means to say, “I’m sorry.” He is. “I can’t do this right now.”

It’s a beautiful California day outside. It’s one of those days where Matt would usually surprise him with cafe lunches by the bay. Matt was always good about being thoughtful. Nate always liked that about him.

The thing is, Nate’s never been very good at this part. He says, “I’ll call you later,” and wonders if it’s a lie.

*

Even in jail, Brad stays the same. He doesn’t get thinner or develop any nervous twitches. His beach-won tan’s only faded a degree, not enough to be obvious.

He looks back with the same endless eyes, the same private smile.

It’s Nate who wears the passing days on the surface. He feels the buzz of expectation humming underneath his skin like a latent nervous breakdown.

“It’s going to be ok,” Brad says.

It’s not, but it’s not Brad’s fault that Nate’s never learned how to say goodbye.

*

There’s a familiar figure waiting outside the county jail center when Nate leaves. Nate thinks for a minute and remembers. “Donna right? Brad’s friend?”

She looks up as he approaches. There are smudges of her mascara at the corner of her eyes, like she just rubbed them without thinking.

Nate offers her a smile. “Sorry, I think visiting hours are over now, but you could come back tomorrow. I think they open at 9.”

She bites her lip. The ruby red of her lipstick matches her hair. “I..I can’t,” she says, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

This close, Nate can smell the lingering smoke of the cigarettes she must have been smoking. There’s a pile of butts on the ashtray next to her, enough to fill a pack.

Nate nods. There’s only three days left until the arraignment; he’s too tired to convince anyone.

A block down from the jail, there’s a bar that Nate goes to sometimes. Nate takes Donna there and listens to her stories of all the crazy customers she’s seen over the years. She throws back shots in between in a quick, practiced arc. Nate sips a slow two drinks and laughs more than he has in weeks.

They wind up back at Nate’s hotel. There’s a bottle of scotch that he was saving for after, but there doesn’t seem to be much point now. Nate pours out two cups and hands one to Donna. The heater kicks on. It fills the room with a gentle hum.

Donna traces the plastic rim of the cup with a fingernail. She’s lost the looseness of the bar. She says, “Tommy used to worship Brad, you know.”

The name’s familiar. Nate remembers it from his files. “Tommy? Thomas Bensen? The guy who died in Iraq?”

“Yeah,” she says. They haven’t talked about the trial at all. Nate wonders what made her start now.

“Tommy was this skinny, nerdy kid from L.A. Anderson always thought he wasn’t tough enough for the Marines much less Recon so he kept sending Tommy out on these little test missions, like, ‘You aren’t good enough for this platoon if you can’t scout five miles ahead of everyone else and come back and report in the hour,’ or something crazy like that. But Tommy passed them all, you see. And he didn’t even complain. He just said, ‘Oh, Captain Anderson selected me for another special assignment,’ like he was proud or something.”

It’s different from the stories she told before. At the bar, her voice rolled up and down, the ready charm of a bard. Now, it’s flat as a recitation.

“When Tommy died, they all said how he was so brave and he was so heroic, but Brad told me. ‘You don’t send a good man out into hostile territory like that. You don’t send him alone, in the middle of the afternoon, into a fucking ambush.’ That’s what Brad said. He’s the only one who had the balls to tell me the truth.

“The irony is Tommy only joined the Marines because he was tired of guys like Anderson bullying him all his life. And now he’s dead.”

Nate thinks of McGraw, thinks of Schwetje, thinks of all the might-have-beens. It’s sad, but Donna’s story is not unfamiliar.

“Anderson used to come to the bar with his military buddies,” she continues. “They’d all talk about what great god damn heroes they all were. And I just thought, it should be him.”

She takes another drink. Nate watches the muscles of her throat clench and relax. She looks him in the eye and says, “When they found Tommy’s body, he had fourteen bullets in him. It should have been Anderson.”

Despite the bar earlier, Nate doesn’t really know anything about her. “Donna,” he says. He doesn’t know if he’s the right person to hear this.

She doesn’t seem to hear him. “Brad used to take me to this gun range after work. He said it would make me feel better. But it didn’t. It just made me hate Anderson more.”

She exhales in a rush. She’s crying. “God, I hate him,” she says.

If Nate were in her shoes, he’d hate Anderson too. It’s a feeling he can relate to. He could tell her, give her that comfort of understanding.

Instead, he thinks about Brad, sleeping in a tight cell, so far inland that the air’s settled into crisp instead of moisture rich. He says, “Donna, what are you trying to tell me?”

She calms again, continues. “Brad was always really good to Tommy. Tommy was always going on in his letters about how great Sergeant Colbert is. After this one firefight, it must have gotten close because Tommy made Brad swear that if anything ever happened to him, Brad would take care of us.”

“Us?”

“Our son. We have a son. Jamie. He was born right before Tommy left.” She wipes at her face. “Brad said he’d never let anything happen to us.”

It’s the kind of promise Brad would keep. Nate wonders when he forgot that about Brad. Maybe he hasn’t. “Brad’s a good man,” he says.

“He’s a great man. He doesn’t belong in prison. Anderson, he’s the real murderer.”

Nate wonders who she’s trying to convince. He doesn’t know if this is a confession, but he has to try. “Donna, please, you-“

“I can’t, Nate. I can’t.” She downs the rest of her drink, breathes. “Jamie, he’s already lost his dad. I’m all he’s got.”

Nate’s thought she was beautiful since the first time they met. Except her hands. She has these short, chubby fingers that don’t belong with the precise elegance of the rest of her body. Nate watches them, clenched too tightly around her cup, and tries not to hate her.

“God, why is the world so fucked up?” she says.

*

It’s three when Donna finally leaves. Nate watches the cab drive away, Donna’s profile a dim silhouette in the backseat window.

There’s a vending machine that sells legit cigarette brands around the corner. Nate buys a pack of Turkish Jades and lights one up, leaning against the cold iron railing of the hotel’s second story walkway.

The last time Nate smoked was in Iraq and, before that, once in college on a dare. It’s not unfamiliar though. He swallows. The burn gets trapped in his throat and he coughs, harsh and grating.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost see it: the empty side street, the neat suburban houses, Anderson’s solitary figure.

Donna, hair disheveled, tears staining her makeup, looking just as she did laying on Nate’s hotel policed sheets.

Maybe she was the one who shot Anderson. Maybe Brad did it for her. Maybe it was a joint venture.

Nate’s ridden along believing Brad was guilty but not knowing. He didn’t force the issue. He didn’t do his job.

He thinks, Brad’s getting a murder sentence because he couldn’t see past his own fucking hang-ups.

The cigarette’s burned almost to the filter. Nate’s never really liked smoking. He always did it too fast, taking quick little drags that pulled the cherry end along. He’s never felt the high of nicotine.

He stamps out the cigarette and goes inside. The bed smells like Donna’s shampoo. Earlier, he watched her nap, drained from too much alcohol and too many words.

He lies down, regulates his breathing to something approaching normal and tries to sleep.

*

“Tell me what really happened.”

Brad’s smiling when he answers. “Don’t tell me you don’t know at this stage.”

“I talked to Donna Williams last night.” Nate watches Brad flinch. “So I say again, what really happened?”

Brad’s silent. There was a time when Nate thought that the truth would always be understood between them. Now, he wonders if it’s a privilege he’s only ever allowed to have outside of the continent.

Nate sighs and says, “Why didn’t you tell me-“

“Nate.” It’s the first time Brad looks like he doesn’t have an answer ready, like he’s as unready for this eventuality as Nate is.

It doesn’t last long. Nate sees the frazzled edges of Brad’s determination solidifying until Brad is as un-humanly-movable as the deepest glacier.

“Captain Anderson and I argued earlier in the evening. I was still angry about it so I followed him after he left the bar. I confronted him again. He made an off-color response. I pulled out a Glock 26, which I had taken from the Iron Sights Shooting Range, and fired off three rounds. I was alone.”

Brad blinks. His voice is calm and steady. Only his hands shake.

“As for Ms. Williams, she ended her shift early and was gone before Captain Anderson left. I think her son was sick. I never mentioned my intentions to her. So I’m not sure what she could have told you, but she was not involved in any way.”

Nate wonders if this is what desperation is, if he’s feeling a trace of what Donna must have felt, still-warm gun falling from her hands. He hears it in his voice when he says, “Why are you doing this?”

Brad finally looks away. His shoulders sag. “Let it go, Nate.”

*

Brad somehow managed to score a house just two blocks from the beach even on an enlisted man’s salary. With the windows open, the sound of ocean waves came through even against traffic, gentle like a sound machine.

Nate spent a lot of time their first month back from Iraq camped out on Brad’s couch, breathing in marine saturated air and remembering to be human again.

After the rush of maneuver warfare, they had a lot of free time. Nate learned to surf well enough to keep his balance on the steadier waves. Brad was much better, riding swells and crests with the seasoned grace of a native.

In Iraq, despite his complaints, Brad settled into the desert like he belonged there, wearing cracked lips and sunburned cheeks as well as he did Marine camouflage. Here, Nate watched the ocean dry in increments from Brad’s skin until there was only a thin layer of clinging salt left behind. Nate tasted it underneath his tongue, felt it underneath his fingernails, the same gritty consistency as sand.

He told Brad at the beach. “I’m resigning my commission,” he said. Against sun-bright bodies and wide open water, it seemed like the wrong kind of confession.

Brad nodded. “Thought you might,” he said and didn’t ask any questions.

*

After all the medals and promotions were handed out, they got three weeks of leave. Nate flew home to Baltimore and tried not to feel like a lost waif washed up on his parents’ guest room floor.

He ended up in his dad’s study a lot, surrounded by walls of law books. Before Nate flirted with Medicine, Atticus Finch used to be his childhood hero.

Over dinner, he asked, “Do you like what you do?”

His dad paused, finished chewing. “Yeah, I do,” he said, easy and sure.

Nate fingered the gun calluses on his right palm. He decided it was the kind of uncomplicated answer he’d like to give himself.

He took the LSATs in September and did well. He had some old professors he still kept in touch with.

In December, Harvard emailed him an acceptance letter. Brad took him out to dinner with the lingering California-rooted members of their old platoon to celebrate. They laughed and joked and barely avoided getting drunk.

Later, Brad said, “I’m really happy for you, Nate,” and Nate whispered back, “Thanks.” In the dark, he imagined Brad’s careful smile and tried to work up enough moisture in his mouth to swallow.

*

He got into Stanford, too. He got into UC San Diego. He could have been an hour away from Pendleton.

Nate doesn’t know which one Brad would have preferred, far or near.

*

He needs to look harder.

There’s less than a day left until the arraignment. Nate spends a precious hour driving to the grocery and picking up a four pack of Red Bull and a bag of Starbucks Italian Roast.

There’s surprisingly little information to go through. The witness list barely has ten people on it: a few waitresses who heard them arguing, Anderson’s Marine buddies, the neighbor two doors down who finally called the police fifteen minutes after the first shot. The report on the murder weapon has a coffee stain on it.

Everything’s too sharp. The bright red digits of the hotel alarm clock keeps catching his eye like the counter on a ticking bomb. He unplugs it and hides it under the covers.

He tries to breathe. The artificial adrenaline buzz of the Red Bull tugs at his nerves like the kind of intoxicated he hasn’t been in years. He needs to calm down. Iraq’s cloaked him in the mantle of life and death responsibilities long ago. They made it through ok in the end.

He picks up the autopsy report again. He made presumptions - everyone did. It’s the kind of thinking that lets details be overlooked.

He doesn’t believe in fate, isn’t sure about God, but he knows this. He knows it’s not going to end like this, four walls and a lock between them.

He knows.

*

In the end, he finds it with only four hours to spare. Roberts doesn’t sound particularly happy to be woken up, but he agrees to an audience beforehand.

Brad’s already waiting outside the judge’s chambers when Nate gets there. He looks immaculate, freshly showered, prison uniform flowing in crisp lines.

Nate’s running on no sleep and two pots of coffee. He ran out of clean clothes three days ago. Underneath his skin, he feels his stubble growing in.

He pulls himself up straighter, tries to remember his officer voice. “I’m not here to break your promise, but don’t fight me either.”

Brad looks back. “Understood, sir,” he says, voice familiar with the echo of a trust that carried Nate through Iraq.

Nate leaves Brad outside and goes in. Reynolds, the Assistant District Attorney on the case, is already there, looking impatient and smug. Nate ignores him and hands Roberts a copy of Brad’s file.

“The gun residue test?” Roberts asks.

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t understand. It shows the defendant was found positive for gunpowder residue.”

“Positive yes, but only for _trace_ amounts. Look at the figures, sir. Consistent with someone who’s been around firearms recently, sure, but unless Sergeant Colbert somehow went to wash his hands before the police arrived, there’s no way the level is high enough to have fired anything recently, much less the three shots that killed Anderson.”

Reynolds looks surprised. “I don’t believe this. There must be some kind of mistake.”

“That’s your police station’s report,” Nate points out.

“Maybe he wore gloves. Who knows? The fact remains that the police found him hovering over Captain Anderson’s body with the murder weapon on his person.” Reynolds sounds angry. It’s a good sign.

“ _Thirty minutes_ after the victim was already dead. And no gloves were found. No witnesses who actually saw the shooting either. In fact, there’s strong evidence that Brad didn’t even fire the gun that killed Captain Anderson. So if we’re playing the hypotheticals game here, what if Brad followed Anderson to confront him, walked in on a murder scene and picked up the gun in shock?”

“Yeah? If that’s the case, why hasn’t he bothered denying the charges? In fact, why has he failed to this day to provide a complete report of his activities that night?”

They’re relevant questions. Good for swaying opinions, Nate knows, but they’re not there yet. “I’m just here to present the facts, not guess at Sergeant Colbert’s motivations.”

“You’re a good man, Nate,” Reynolds says, voice soft with conspiracy. “You want to protect your friend, your fellow Marine. I understand. But there’s another Marine, another _good man_ dead here. And if Colbert didn’t do it, then he’s at least protecting the person who did, and that makes him just as responsible.”

Nate smiles back. “I’m sorry, I thought my client was being charged with murder here, not obstruction of justice.”

Judge Roberts clears his throat. Nate’s forgotten he’s there.

“You make a strong case, Mr. Fick. Mr. Reynolds, if you’d like think it over, discuss it with your boss, we can meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

*

Brad’s sitting on a garnished, Grecian bench nearby when Nate comes out. “What did you say?” he asks, unhurried.

It takes four medium strides for Nate to walk over. His footsteps echo on the polished floors. “I told them you didn’t do it.” He pauses, sits down close. “There were some factual inconsistencies.”

Brad raises an eyebrow. “Factual inconsistencies?”

“Yeah.”

Brad smiles and says, “Ok.”

They lapse into silence. Nate feels the minutes slide away. Closer to absolution, he thinks.

After a while, Brad turns restless next to him. “Nate, I-“ Brad starts. He licks his lips, once, before he continues. “I don’t know if I would have done it, but I did want to see you again.”

If there was fault to be assigned, it was always as much his as it was Brad’s. Nate’s known this almost as long as he’s known his own regrets. He takes Brad’s hand in his own, rubs the bump of a knuckle. He doesn’t remember ever doing this before.

He feels the tension in Brad’s arm, feels him try to pull away.

“Brad,” Nate says. He holds on tighter. “Whatever happens, you know you can’t go back, right?”

A muscle in Brad’s jaw clinches, just for a second. Brad doesn’t relax, but he stops struggling. “Yeah, I know,” he says, voice soft and tired.

The door opens, calling them back in. Reynolds walks over, refusing to look Nate in the eye. Nate breathes out and smiles.

*

Nothing really happened until Baghdad. Nate remembers little touches, lingering looks that could have meant anything, good fantasies that warmed him in his ranger grave under the clear, Iraqi ski.

In Baghdad, they had time and solid, available walls.

Nate found Brad cleaning his rifle, black smudges of grease tender on his hands. Nate smiled. Another look and Brad was following him into one of the better kept offices in the back of the compound.

Nate waited until Brad got door closed, old fashioned chair jam as lock, before he started stripping. With their regular uniforms, it didn’t take long. Brad finished first. Nate took in all that skin in front of him, sunburned and dirty and nowhere near perfect. It was beautiful anyway.

There’s a lot Nate wanted to do, but he was realistic about where they were. He stepped in close, learned the shape of Brad’s mouth, the rhythm of Brad’s heart beating against his own skin, the delicate satin of Brad’s cock as it slid against his palm.

They didn’t say much, maybe nothing at all until Brad whispered out “Nate” as he came, a choked off syllable that Nate felt straight to his bone. Brad didn’t stop, barely lost a beat in the tempo of his rhythm.

Afterwards, Nate remembered Brad’s hands, come spattered and holding onto Nate’s dick until Nate was all the way back to soft, like he was making it last.

*

The first thing Reynolds says is “You’re not off the hook.” They’re suspending the murder charge for now. The police have a lot of questions.

Nate doesn’t wonder how Brad will answer. If Brad’s willing to commit perjury to save a friend, he should do so to save himself.

Nate follows Brad back to the county jailhouse. The processing doesn’t take very long. Brad comes out in a loose t-shirt and jeans, still breathtaking in month-old clothes. Nate’s forgotten the way the muted colors bring out the roaring blue of Brad’s eyes.

“Nate,” Brad says. He bows his head, eyelashes brushing shadows against his cheek. “I didn’t do it.”

“I know,” Nate doesn’t say. It’s a cold day for California; Nate’s breaths come out in visible amorphous bursts. He grins and says, “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

*


End file.
